


Immolation

by Acteon_Carolsfeld



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Choking, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Spoilers, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Submissive Tarn, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW), headcanon characterization of deathsaurus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acteon_Carolsfeld/pseuds/Acteon_Carolsfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarn attends a private conference with Deathsaurus. Specifics in rank aren't going to work out themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immolation

Deathsaurus had a manner of strides that revealed much about his person. Long and firm, his pace was brisk, but steady, pedfalls echoing between the walls of the corridor as though announcing the entrance of their bearer. There was no question in his demeanor or intentions, as those like him did not fancy the coy word or slippery phrase. His life revolved around obtaining the completion of his purpose, and such linear method of existence suited him well, as it would a figure born to symbolize and epitomize an ideal. At the forefront of an army of hundreds, he was proud, faultless, an avatar of self-realized strength that did not depend on the will or drive of another.

Tarn wondered, briefly, if that was what had ultimately compelled him to contact the warlord.

“I would’ve preferred _repairs_ before holding conference with you.” The tankformer said, helm tilted, half a step behind the other ‘Con.

“We are a _stronghold_ , Tarn, not a team of _six_.” Deathsaurus tossed him a glance, a glimpse of fangs through upturned lips. “We have a thing called ‘ _schedules_ ’. Ever heard of it?”

“The DJD functions on schedule.” Tarn replied. “There was much turmoil when we skipped four names to see you.”

The blue mech barked a laugh. “Too bad no one’s lived to mention your sense of humour.” He clapped the tank on his treads. “If I’d known, I might’ve welcomed you a little differently.” Red optics glimmered.

Tarn watched the other ‘Con, a slight frown behind his mask. “You jest in the presence of one you would’ve gladly offlined but five minutes ago.”

Deathsaurus cast him another look. “Five minutes ago,” He said, “I thought you were going to _talk_ me to death.”

Like many other occasions of casual chatter about his vocals, Tarn felt the overwhelming urge to rub his faceplate and cycle a sigh. “My reputation may have been exaggerated to obscene levels. Me having a word does not always end in the snuffing of sparks.” He gave the corridor a sweep with his optics. “I assume the absence of your soldiers commuting the halls is not a coincidence to my whereabouts.”

“You almost killed us through the _radio_.” Deathsaurus arched a brow ridge. “I think it’s fair for them to not trust you.”

“Do _you_ trust me?”

The question might have caught the warlord off-guard, but the only visible indication would’ve been the lull of silence in their conversation.

Deathsaurus studied him, on his lips a small smile that did not reach his gaze.

“That would suggest you trust _me_.” He cocked his head, a flippant gesture meant to disarm.

Tarn expected the quip. It was almost disappointing, as though he was worth only the most predictable of retorts. “I fail to see how that correlates.” He said.

At that, Deathsaurus laughed. “You’re an _enigma_ , Tarn.” The grin turned sharp, with a matching glint in the optics. “ _Everything_ you do correlates.”

A large hand gave his treads a squeeze, just hard enough to pinch his peripheral sensors.

Tarn stalled, noting the odd display.

The other ‘Con walked on. His strides remained long and firm. As his head turned from view, the grin on his faceplate shifted.

Lips furling into a scowl.

* * *

Deathsaurus’s office was at the heart of the Warworld. Surrounded by enforced metal on all sides, it had no window, and the door was a gate that creaked as it slid on its tracks. Tarn stopped his idle inspection of the flickering ceiling light in the corridor, and followed the warlord into the chamber. Deathsaurus did not make a point to block the keypad to enter his passcode, but the tankformer did not like to pry into the matters of allies.

The room was bare. There was a table, two chairs, and a console. Nothing furnished the walls, the paint a naked canvas of silver. The ventilation chute hummed a steady stream, but as the door closed behind him, Tarn noted with a small knit between his brows that a flier would have a difficult time withstanding the suffocating odor of artificial currents. The floor had an even shine, the table spotless. However, the place held a tinge of neglect, its air stiff and cold.

“This room used to be an interrogation cell,” Deathsaurus spoke up, as though sensing the tank’s assessment. “Since we don’t keep prisoners…” He shrugged a shoulder, and walked around the table.

“I understand.” Tarn took a seat opposite of his host.

“To be frank, I don’t use this place very much.” The blue mech laced his digits on top of the table, elbows sitting on the edge. “Most of the time, conferences happen in the Pit.”

“The Pit?”

“The place where I received you,” Deathsaurus explained. “We don’t keep secrets. Everyone knows where we’re going and what we’re doing when we get there. It’s simpler that way. Well-prepared. No surprises.”

Tarn hummed. “Efficient.” He nodded.

“You sound pleased.” The fangs bared in a grin.

The tankformer gave them a glance. “It suits an army at the size of your following.”

“Is that what you’re here for? To become my following?” Deathsaurus asked, voice a casual flick of words.

“I am here as an ally.” The leader of the DJD stated.

“I know, but I _also_ know _you_ know that a Warworld can’t have two generals.” The said general sounded amicable enough. “Decepticons don’t do well with shared authority, as various experiences have exemplified. Structure is important to an army of five hundred, and _you_ , Tarn, have led a unit of no more than a mere _six_ , including yourself, for millions of years. You’re not expecting me to hand over the specter, so what _do_ you expect?”

“I…am here for a shared purpose.” Tarn frowned behind his mask. “I am not here to integrate my unit—”

“-The _Decepticon Justice Division_ files under ‘Special Task Forces’ within the Great Decepticon Armada. Me and mine are the only real Decepticons left.” Deathsaurus tilted his helm, a small quirk on his lips. “This fortress is mine. The _people_ are mine. You want war, but war has never stopped for us. Are you here for _me_ , or my _army_? I will not hand over my soldiers if it’s the latter you want.”

Tarn shuttered his optics, sitting back in his chair. “I’m not—”

“-You’re not _what_?” The smile dropped, and the warlord’s gaze flared to an overbearing stare. “You think you’re exempt just because you took me off the List? You don’t win wars with murder, Tarn, and this very stronghold would’ve become your graves if you’d actually tried to cross my name.”

Tarn’s optics narrowed. His EM field rippled. His digits curled around his knees, but he stayed silent, simmering from having to swallow the blatant, graceless display of assertion pulsing from the other mech.

“You conceded the moment you arrived at my doorstep.” Deathsaurus sneered, needling words dropping to a quiet, spitting snarl. “Without that voice of yours, you’re just any other brute with big guns, and I have that aplenty here.”

That stung.

It stabbed an old wound, one that never healed to a full close.

Regardless of whether a fluke or intended, Deathsaurus struck a tender nerve, one that the tankformer has wanted to bury through insatiable consumption of decadent needs.

“You despise me for my abilities.” Tarn said, voice stirring from the back of his throat. “You fear me. You fear what I can do if I only so wished.”

“Oh but you won’t, Tarn,” The warlord leaned forward, shadow bleeding down his faceplate, “Because you’re a _Decepticon_ , not an Autobot relying on _cheap tricks_.”

Tarn narrowed his optics. “…Honour?” He whispered.

“ _Pride_.” Deathsaurus spat.

“Not all Decepticons have pride.” The tank argued.

“All Decepticons _here_ do.” The warlord replied in kind. “When was the last time _you_ felt proud?”

Tarn felt his lips part, “ _I have always_ ” at the tip of his glossa. However, it faltered, gurgled and fell to a silent shiver of exhalation. He was startled by the wordless admittance, gaze blinking wide. His hands tightened around his knees, and his torso bowed, weighed down by the realization, one that hung from his lowered helm.

“…Not since…” He hushed, “Not since his denounce of his Cause.”

There was no question on the identity of whom he addressed. Even now, the memory scorched his insides, burned the edges of his optics.

For a moment, Deathsaurus did not speak. His gaze was a heavy spread of heat against the tankformer’s EM field, one that prickled the surface sensors of crack-laced derma.

“Even with all your Primus-given talents,” The warlord mused, “he still treated you a brute with big guns.”

Tarn smiled, brow ridges pinching. “You’re wondering why I wear fusion canons?” He murmured, voice a soft croon.

Deathsaurus watched him, waiting.

The leader of the DJD raised his helm, and looked at the other ‘Con right in the brunt scald of his optics.

“It’s simple.” He purred a rasp that rumbled in his chassis, “The lash-back of their discharge _excites_ me…” A lick of fire sprung up his spinal strut in response to the flash in the other mech’s gaze.

Deathsaurus was silent. The glow of red, piercing from the dark shroud over his faceplate, dimmed to a low seethe.

“You offer other uses.” He said.

“Isn’t that what you want?” Tarn peered from his slight bow. “The Decepticon way?” He savoured the syllables. “A most _blatant_ trade of power?”

“A ‘trade’ suggests you’d ever _had_ power here.”

“But I _did_.” The tankformer crawled from his chair, and draped his torso across the table in a slow, indulgent stretch of limbs. “Even _if_ me and mine had perished on your Warworld, Deathsaurus…” He tilted his helm, and pressed the side of his mask against the other ‘Con’s cheek, “…I would’ve had _you_.”

Deathsaurus did not move. When the leader of the DJD backed away with a smooth rise onto his peds, the warlord merely followed with his optics, ones that once again burned like pools of smelt.

“How many do you suppose have propositioned me with this very request?” Tarn strolled across the office, hands loosely interlaced behind his back. “They all wish to feel me beneath them…feel my whispers _rouse_ the throb and swell of their spark…”

He tantalized the edge of that ensnaring note, one that would tug at a spark and play its tune to his whims.

“They all wish to taste the vibrations of my desire,” He turned, casting a glance of hither at the general of hundreds, “…one that weaves tendrils from their burning life with mere lilts of murmured melodies.” He approached the table, one methodical step at a time. “To shudder in ecstasy from the minute articulations of hushed profanities—… _kindling_ the fire within them…” A shuddering inhale that heaved his chassis.

“… _Pluck_ from my lips the songs of yearning.”

He circled the desk, fingers unraveling behind him.

“Steal from my intakes…the gasps of pleas.”

The tips of his digits trailed a tickle on the spotless surface of the table.

“Render every mask shattered with your touch.” He stopped beside the warlord, standing over the seated figure.

“…Inspire within me… _shivers_ …” He bent down, “…ones that beseech for _infinite submission_ —” A whispered growl, “…of your _grip around my neck_.”

Silence hummed to the steady cycling of air from the ventilation shafts. Tarn waited, motionless, EM field pulsing in waves that flicked against the general seated at his desk.

Deathsaurus stared ahead, gaze dim, hands flat against the table. On his faceplate was the inkling of an emerging scowl, jaws tight and lips pressed firm.

A quiet murmur stirred from his throat.

The sound swept louder like a wave in a storm, and the warlord threw his head back, hackling laughter brimming the small chamber as his shoulders shook under the exertion of hilarity.

Tarn froze.

His optics shuttered.

“You presume to know so much about me, for I was _born_ a Decepticon,” Deathsaurus bellowed amidst his armour-rattling guffaws. “But Tarn – oh Tarn of the DJD,” He shook his helm. “You know nothing.” He exclaimed, fangs glinting from a grin that carved shadows on his face. “It’s fraggin’ _hilarious_ how much _nothing_ you know.” A string of giggles wheezed through bitten dentae.

A chill doused the tankformer’s spark. What little heat that had unfurled in his core snuffed to nil in an instance. Optics flaring bright, Tarn shoved away, and took a brisk turn toward the door.

His pedfalls echoed within the chamber. His fists clenched tight by his sides.

A hand latched around his arm. A following yank toppled his balance, jolting a hitch from his intakes.

Tarn fell against the desk, side plating hitting its edge before he could brace his weight. He winced, not so much from the blossoming throb, but rather the fact that he was caught off-guard, that the warlord was quick enough to grab him.

Deathsaurus pushed from his chair. With a smooth sidle and a quick maneuver, he twisted the captured arm, and shoved the tank down onto the table.

Tarn could’ve easily swayed the position in his favour. The hold was only half-sparked, the force on his frame barely making an effort to keep him there.

“You _assume_ too much, Tarn.” Deathsaurus bent down, chassis pressing flat against the tankformer’s back. “You and your pretentious wisdom on the universe and the people in it.” The snarl gritted against his audial. Hot air huffed against his plating from whirring cooling fans.

Tarn shivered, the reaction involuntary.

“You think I want to hear you talk, even after I’d made clear that I don’t _want_ your ‘ _quiet word_ ’.”

The grip around his wrist clamped enough to hurt. The other large hand groped down his frame, pausing to squeeze around his hip.

“In fact,” Deathsaurus hummed a low chuckle, pelvic plating grinding against the back of his thighs:

“…I’d rather _shut you up_.”

The words carved through his armor, gouging claw marks of heat through his circuitry.

_Steal my voice._

_Silence my worth._

“Open.” The general spat through bitten dentae.

Without question, his interface panel snapped aside by its own accord, inciting a jolt of surprise from his frame.

Deathsaurus reached inward, cupping his palm over the perk of the tankformer’s aft. His digits gave the soft, sinewy folds a firm stroke, and a hiss of disgust blew against the purple mech’s back.

“You ask for a frag and you aren’t even wet.” The warlord growled, and ground a hard knead against the anterior node.

“-Ngn—!” Tarn flinched, knees curling up, digits digging into the table.

“How in the thirteen pits of Unicron do you want to _serve_ me with a lukewarm valve?” Deathsaurus grunted, rubbing the node with his fingers, completely disregarding the moistening slit.

Tarn shivered, hips jolting, and swallowed a strangled noise bubbling from his throat. Every circular motion against the external cluster lit up a ring of sensors inside him, and the writhing ball of heat in his groin rose in augmenting waves, tingling to his extremities. The tip of his spike pressed against the cover of its housing, but he paid it no heed, curbing the commands urging him for full pressurization.

“You got a mouth under that mask?” The fingers left his port the moment globs of sticky lubricant oozed out of the folds. The fluid coated the external surface of his interface hardware, and stringed in a thick clump, spreading onto a blue-plated thigh before splattering onto the floor.

Covered in thin smears, the digits tapped him on the side of his helm.

Tarn squirmed, ventilation loud and heavy against the surface of the desk. He dragged his head in a turn, and rested on a cheek.

“Suck.” The fingers pressed against his mask, leaving trails that gleamed. “I don’t like going in dry.”

Tarn stared at the fall wall, a minute tremor fluttering through him like a plucked string. There was a series of soft clicks as he disengaged the locking mechanism of his mask, and the digits peeled under the cracked plating, tips stroking up his chin before digging into his mouth.

The tankformer shivered, a muffled groan trickling from his vocalizer as the pads of the fingers pressed against his glossa. The gesture pried open his jaws, and his free hand grappled for an edge to clutch, engine revving a growl that vibrated all the way through his back. The frame above his leaned down further, a thigh sliding further between his, nudging them apart.

Coarse, hard armour brushed against the weeping slit now scalding hot. Tarn hissed, bucking against the weight pinning him down.

Deathsaurus chuckled. “I should just rip that mask right off your face.” He whispered, fangs picking hair scratches against the tank’s audial. “It’s a bad joke, your desperate grasp for the ‘Decepticon way’…”

A grin spread against his derma. Wafts of humid air seeped against his spinal strut.

“Figures,” The warlord scoffed through gritted dentae, “for the banner mech of the DJD to not do it right.”

Tarn’s optics flashed. He raised his helm, but a gurgle silenced the rising argument. The fingers in his mouth sank in knuckles deep, and the thigh between his lifted, rubbing lengthways against the folds of naked, sensitive hardware.

Lubricant slid down in slow trickles along blue plating.

Deathsaurus massaged the glossa in long, languid strokes, the pace and indulgence matched in the slow grind of his limb.

Tarn trembled under the hot frame, choked noises blurting to the torturous rhythm stoking to greater heights the wringing pressure inside him.

“…You want to talk about Megatron?”

Optics widened behind the mask.

No… _no_ …

“I’ll _tell_ you about _Megatron_.” Deathsaurus ignored his warbled protests, and dug down hard on his glossa when he refused to settle.

Coughs rattled through his frame. Oral lubricant leaked out of his lips. Tarn shuddered, and pinched his optical shutters closed. He fell silent, intakes hitching every time the thick thigh ground against the external sensors of his port, slippery friction spreading the folds.

“He and I had a little chat once,” Deathsaurus began, tone light and conversational, “back when I was his shiny new pet.” He huffed a laugh. “You ever wonder why he didn’t keep _you_ around but named _Starscream_ his second-in-command?” The question purred. “Why he didn’t send _you_ to the frontlines? Where you could do some actual damage and boost morale for the troops?”

With one last lingering knead, the fingers popped free from his mouth, smearing a spread of oral fluids down his lips and chin.

“You are ostentatious to a fault, Tarn.” The general murmured, hand reaching downward. “That’s what he said. That’s why he sent you off to do his _housekeeping_.” The thigh left his valve. Digits replaced it, tracing lazy circles against the folds engorged from charge.

Tarn writhed, struggling to keep from rutting against the fingers. His intakes spat bursts of hot air, and heat rolled in waves from the seams of his armour.

“You’re more useful to the Empire by reputation.”

The digits plunged in to the hilt.

“Ahh—!” His frame arched tight, optics flashing as a flare of pleasure strung his joints until his entire being jolted in convulsion.

“Your fawning sickened him.”

The tips of the fingers curled, a slight fluttering of movement that barely stirred against the wet lining of his port, tickling sensors that hungered for even the smallest feedback.

“You worshipped him a god when he wanted nothing to do with being one.”

The fingers refused to thrust, no matter how he pressed down and squirmed and fought to heighten the sensation.

“Long story short?” Deathsaurus continued his maddening tirade, “You’re _really_ _annoying_.”

The fingers rubbed, and a slow blossom of heat rippled. The pressure swelled just a smidge headier, and a small wave peaked for a blip of white light.

“—Nghnn!” Tarn bucked, knees knocking into the side of the table. It was frustrating, more of a lengthening torment than a satisfying release. Optics cinching offline, he hid his faceplate against the desk, a trembling hand clipping his mask back in place. His intakes stuttered, ventilation barely on the cusp of regaining a sliver of regulated breaths before a full thrust jolted a cry from his lips, the wet smack of a palm humiliating as it echoed inside the small chamber.

Deathsaurus slammed into him, adding a third digit to insist the stretch. Lubricant splattered in messy spittle, stringing between the hand and the plating of his aft. His sensors sang with feedback, urging the soaring pleasure in waves of heat until the tightening coil of pressure deep inside him once again primed for completion.

Tarn clutched his mask, hoping to muffle the noises stumbling past his lips. His hip plating beat against the edge of the table with every thrust, each impact a dull throb on the peripheral of the overwhelming pleasure that made him churn and thrash and writhe under the warlord. His spark spun inside his chassis, its heat plunging his awareness into a dizzying swirl of scorching bliss. He bit down hard on his lips behind his mask. He couldn’t speak now, not when he was so close. He wanted nothing more than to feel this whirlwind of euphoria splinter and rip into a perfect, shrieking chord that rattled from derma to core.

For a moment, he couldn’t register anything that happened around him.

It wasn’t until his vocalizer chafed that he realized he was the one filling the room with a cry, gushes of hot lubricant splashing puddles on the floor beneath his trembling legs.

Deathsaurus was silent to nil behind him, still to a degree garnering alarm.

For a split instance, Tarn felt his spark leap in its chamber. He swirled around, neck cables straining, and gaped up at the other mech, optics stretched wide.

“…Are you dead?” He whispered, port pinching around the fingers still sheathed inside him.

At that, the colossal frame jerked.

Deathsaurus looked up, gaze dim as it flickered on.

“Did you just…almost _kill_ me,” He stared at the tank, “…from an _overload_?”

Tarn couldn’t decide whether he was more mortified by embarrassment or relieved by the fact that Deathsaurus was still alive. In the end, he didn’t have the option to make a choice, for the warlord tugged out his digits, and grabbed him by the hips with a sneer baring fangs.

“ _You_ are fraggin’ _ridiculous_.” The general spat, shoving him higher onto the table. “Get on your back. Covers open.” He barked at the purple mech, the same moment opening his interface panel.

Tarn couldn’t meet the other ‘Con’s scowl. He climbed to sit on the edge of the desk, and lied down as instructed, spike cover retracting with a quiet click.

“ _You_ are more of a danger to me than this entire universe combined!” Deathsaurus slapped apart the silver thighs, ire radiating from his derma. “If this is you trying to play a _Starscream_ , I’m warning you now – I’ll tie you down and tear out that vocalizer myself just to make sure the job is done.”

Tarn felt a bubble of irritation rouse from his spark. Optics narrowed, he snapped his face toward the warlord, and was just about to dish out a retort at the accusation when—

… _Oh_.

Deathsaurus was built to be a realization of the Decepticon ideal.

Tarn had no idea the Decepticon ideal entailed an enormous hardware ridged with perfect, round nodes and shining biolights that outlined the length of the shaft to artistic degrees worthy of poetic inspiration.

The tip had begun to leak, a bud of transfluid gleaming under the light.

Tarn stared, port squeezing in anticipation as a burst of heat rekindled in his groin.

“It…was an accident.” He ended up mumbling, breaths stolen from his vents.

“An _accident_?” The sneer on the blue mech’s lips curled nastier, etching streaks of shadow into his features. “You had this voice of yours for millions of years!” A large hand wrapped around the enormous spike, and gave it a few strokes.

“I—...I’m sorry.” The tankformer shuttered his optics, cheekplates suddenly blistering hot. “I don’t often use my receptive hardware. It…felt good.” The words trailed off. He shuffled his knees higher, and spread his thighs further apart to accommodate the approaching mech.

“Not so eloquent now, are you.” Deathsaurus snorted, and gave the thighs a praising rub and a squeeze. “I would’ve thought you’d try to flower-talk your way out of this.” He lined up his spike to the tankformer’s valve, and, with a gentle rock of his hips, started to push in.

Tarn arched from the table with a flittering gasp of his intakes. Optics flickering offline, he allowed a small moan to pass through his parted lips, the sound slightly muffled behind his mask. The lubricant eased the entry, and his port had been well-prepared. However, even still, the stretch heralded a dull throb, one that both enticed his arousal and a reluctant squirm from his hips.

“Does it hurt?” Deathsaurus asked.

Tarn relighted his optics, and found the warlord looking at him, a faceplate of concentration zoomed in to study his demeanor.

“No.” The tankformer said, spark spinning and fuel pump thudding. His internals felt flushed. His head felt light. His digits clutched around the edges of the table, hard enough to engrave grooves.

The other ‘Con did not reply. A hand wrapped around the purple mech’s spike, and gave it a lengthwise stroke.

The stimulation distracted from the throb. Tarn let out a wavering ex-vent, and sank on the table, a small moan filtering through his vocalizer as the shaft inside him inched deeper ridge by ridge.

“Nice spike you got.” Deathsaurus piped up as he gave the tip a rub with his thumb.

The tank jolted, a hitch disturbing the even cycling of his fans.

“Next time, I’ll ride it.” The warlord said.

“Next time?” Tarn asked.

“You think I’m letting you off easy?” Deathsaurus tossed him a deadpan stare. “You owe me, Tarn. You almost terminated me because I made you ‘load too hard. Is this why you don’t use your valve all that much? You off anyone that frags too good?”

Tarn scrunched his nose, and swallowed a groan, more glad than in his entire existence that he wore a mask. “I would very much prefer to drop this topic.” He muttered, turning his faceplate toward the wall.

“Well, what _do_ you want to talk about?” The general leaned forward, spike bumping against the clusters of sensors at the very back of the valve.

Tarn twitched, a tight-lipped moan followed by an upward jerk of his knees. He waited for the other mech to fully sheathe inside him, and tightened his grip around the edges of the table when the tip of the spike seated firm against the bundle of nodes smarting with feedback. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so full, stretched to the utmost limit of his system. His port pinched around the thick shaft, as though testing the give of the girth, nodes rubbing against ridges in crackling, wet friction drawing a long, quiet shudder from his intakes.

“I…I liked it when you—” He swallowed, “…when you…debased me.” The light of his optics wavered like ember in a storm. His arms shook, joints pulled taut.

Deathsaurus was silent for a moment that ticked by in sluggish instances. “Anything specific you want me to say?” He asked, vacant hand stroking upward as he leaned forward, pressing deeper into the tank.

Tarn gritted his dentae, and reared his helm in a low, quiet keen. He did not speak, legs cinching around the warlord with a tremor that cascaded through his frame.

“Very well.” The general’s gaze dimmed. His hand slid to the tankformer’s neck. “I got a good idea what you like.” Digits curled, one by one, around the cables exposed by the backward tilt of a head bearing the mark of their Cause.

Tarn swallowed, and offlined his optics. He relished in the increasing constriction over his vocalizer, arousal a swell of fermenting heat that prickled to the very tips of his fingers, stoked by the indulgent, forward grind of the spike inside his port.

Deathsaurus began to rock, the movement gentle, even as he bore his weight on the purple mech’s neck. Nodes sparked. Lubricant pearled around the stuffed rim. Tarn gasped in quivers, each slippery scrape of ridge against valve lining goading a soft noise from his lips.

A squelch accompanied every smooth motion of dark, gray hips. Cooling fans whirred in unity, expelling cycles of scorching, humid air. Tarn’s spark felt full, its tides of heat radiating outward until his derma felt hot enough to melt its polish, internals submerged in a burn that expelled from the seams of his armour in waves. A sweet aroma evaporated from his plating. Coolant raced through his frame. It budded into films of vapour, and cast a sheen over his frame under the dim light of the chamber.

Deathsaurus dug his digits into the graceful arc of a bared neck, other hand massaging the spike in his grip. His pace quickened, sending ripples of sensation lighting through the valve, plunging as deep as he could with every forward roll of his hips.

Tarn shivered, lips parted behind his mask while his ventilation panted in heightening need. As the thrusts grew in force and speed, the noises from his vocalizer increased in urgency, until he gritted his dentae and tossed his head, writhing on the table with strangled sputters filtering through his intakes. Optics still pinched shut, his whole awareness zeroed in on the spike kneading his insides, one that utterly and thoroughly satiated his parched wish to be filled, to be taken full. He gorged on the feeling, drank in every grind against his ceiling node with greed unbefitting an executer of selfish desires. As the first whimper bled past his lips, the sensation overwhelmed him. The pleasure stole his breath and thoughts, delirium a welcomed haze that soothed the sharp nicks of pride and the constant drive for elegance.

Deathsaurus slammed into him, all pretense of care peeling from him like a fading wisp of smoke on the horizon. His engine growled. His fangs gritted through a sneer. His optics crackled in bursts of light, and his fingers clamped down so hard that the tankformer, for a split instance, worried about his vocalizer.

No coy words. No clever turns of phrase. There was no beauty, only acts of carnal desire, one of lust born from a passionate spark that lived for conquest and war and domination above all to end the suffering of many.

It was almost too much. The pleasure was unrelenting. It beat inside him, against the sensitive cluster of neural endings, and tore noise after noise in choked whimpers and muffled keens from his throat. A thumb rubbed the tip of his spike, and a convulsion shot up his spinal strut, jolting his frame into quaking stillness as fluids spurted from his shaft even as the bliss continued to claw for higher peaks.

“You disgust me.” A snarl hissed from above. “You look to those undeterred by convention to validate your purpose.”

The thrusts slammed into him harder and faster.

“The mask, the flare, the demands on attention…” The voice bit out, “You wish to pass on the chains.”

“—Nnghhnn!” He pressed his cheek against a shoulder, pleas covered by the roaring of ventilation.

“You envy those who challenge the institution. That is why you are so good at what you do.” The warlord growled, bearing down to angle deeper his thrusts.

Tarn cried out, bucking against the grip around his voice.

“You murder to quell the realization that you will never attain what those on your List have in spades.” Deathsaurus spat, bursts of air accompanying his biting words. “Not enough. Never enough. They grasp their lives in their own hands, make a path by their own volition. But not you. Not _you_ , herald of your fickle _justice_.”

The wet beats of armour echoed inside the chamber. Lubricant splattered into puddles under the tankformer, and leaked down the edge of the table in stringing trickles. The hand around his spike gave it a last rub, and reached downward. A thumb pressed against his anterior node at the same rhythm of the ever quickening thrusts, and Tarn screamed, the sound cutting to static when the pressure around his neck squeezed his vocalizer. Control torn to pieces, he clutched the wrist pinning him down, and shuddered in armour rattling spasms, with no choice but to take the pounding that stuttered his intakes and roused coolant from his optics.

“Your purpose buckled the minute he changed his mind.” Deathsaurus was close. His EM field flared in wild bursts that stung upon impact. “Though I suppose that is only natural,” He laughed in huffs. “After all, what use to the world is a stray dog?”

Tarn could only pant in frantic gulps of air, optics flashing online but unseeing and agape. The cusp was near. He was so close. The walls of his valve started to ripple and squeeze, pressing its sensors against the spike plunging inside him, waves of sensation in rapid succession that lit up his HUD in warnings blaring red.

His legs clenched around the general’s frame. His digits sank dents into the blue armour of the wrist relentlessly pinning him down. His spark felt as though it would burst. His fuel pump thudded audible through his chassis.

“The way I see it,” Deathsaurus was just as breathless, pace growing erratic as the pulse of his EM field became faster and faster.

Tarn keened, overload a mere gasp away.

“…You hunt traitors to run from your own inadequacies.”

Coolant rolled down the sides of his faceplate.

Tarn arched from the desk, a roar revving from his engine.

His lips fell apart.

A silent scream tore in wheezes from his ventilation system.

The spike continued to strike the cluster of sensors deep inside him. He thrashed, frame convulsing in the same spasms that spurted lubricant from his port and stole the breath from his vents. Thoughts toppled. The world wiped into blinding sensations of light and heat. Tarn couldn’t tell how long it lasted, but the frame above his was suddenly still.

A burst of hot fluids gushed into the quivering channel of his port. It filled him to a hot throb, and surged past the rim in thin streams.

The hand was gone from his throat.

Weight fell from above, and bubbles of air trapped against his chassis as cooling fans whirred and a frame landed on his.

A long moment passed before Tarn realized he was staring at the ceiling, and that the humming he heard was, in fact, quiet laughter against his audials.

“…Want more?” A mumble vibrated against his derma, rumbling from the weight draped over his frame.

Tarn offlined his optics, and sank into the table. “No.” His voice croaked, scratched with static.

Deathsaurus shifted onto an elbow. The shuffling alone seemed enough to wind him. “You gonna be okay?” He asked, a frown between brow ridges as he looked down at the tankformer’s face. “We’ll need that vocalizer of yours when we find Megatron.” He said between the huffing pant of his vents, heat evaporating outward into the chamber.

“I’m alright.” Tarn replied, a pile of goo sprawled on the table. “However, I would prefer that you relinquish your position on top of mine.” He cast the warlord a dim stare. “You’re hurting my hips.”

Deathsaurus gave him a look, and bared his fangs in a chuckle. He crawled onto his arms, and slid back, a quiet groan accompanying a satisfied sigh.

Tarn bit his lips, and twitched when the spike pulled away from within him. His sensors still buzzed, tingling post stimulation, and every tickle of ridge against valve lining jerked a tiny hitch from his intakes. When the weight finally lifted, he uncurled his legs, and allowed them to drape down the edge of the desk.

There were fluids everywhere. A new puddle was forming under his aft.

“Here. Clean yourself up.” Deathsaurus said, and a polishing cloth landed on his faceplate. “I don’t want that minibot of yours harking after me for making you a mess.”

Tarn frowned, but took the cloth from his mask. “Her name is Nickel.”

“Nickel?” The general snorted. “For someone so foul-tempered I would’ve expected more bite.”

“Oh she has bite.” Tarn winced as he pushed to sit up on achy joints. “It’s what kept her alive after the termination of her people.” He folded the cloth, and began dabbing at the cooling transfluid on his abdominal plating.

Deathsaurus paused his hasty scrubbing on his hips. “All of them?” He asked, looking at the tank.

Tarn nodded. “She is the only one.”

Silence fell between them. They wiped their frames clean, and made an attempt to dry the puddles on the table and the floor.

“…I believe in the Cause.” Deathsaurus spoke up, sliding his interface panel closed.

Tarn glanced at the warlord, gaze a soft flicker.

“Peace through Tyranny.” He murmured.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback would be much appreciated. <3


End file.
